


Opening Moves

by Herbrarian



Series: New Orders [8]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Chess Metaphors, Duty, Freedom, Gen, Haven (Dragon Age), Templar Order, mage circles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-23 01:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6100501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herbrarian/pseuds/Herbrarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Previously: The Breach is stable. The effort has kept the Prisoner in a deep coma for three days. Now that she is awake she and the advisors met for the first time to discuss this ‘Inquisition’ and what is next.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She couldn’t breathe. Had that just gone as badly as she believed it did? It was a struggle to take in the last five hours since she woke. First that raving chancellor, then all of the … leaders advising what she should do next, and naming her the Herald of Andraste; it seemed unreal that they thought she could rally anyone to her, let alone this ridiculous notion of the Inquisition of Old. Dorothea had heard about the Lady Seeker, knew that she was battle-hardened and used to pushing through her way. She was a fanatic and obviously behind all of this mess.

Trying not to run through the small village, she heads back from the Chantry to her cottage. As she rounds the quartermaster’s tent she can see the crowd milling around outside.

_Sweet Andraste’s tits, why did this have to happen to me?_

Cursing that she hasn’t picked up something to cover her head and hide her from view—her shock of ash white hair stands out among the browns and ambers of the camp buildings—she turns away from the cottages and slips past some tents, jumping down the terraced ledge, and moves past the back side of the crowd. She turns away from the cottage and snakes her way past the erected barricades around the small village, heading toward a trebuchet under construction in the distance. The sight of a siege weapon stuns her among such rural misery, and she feels overwhelmed by the reminder of what they are all expecting her to do.

There are people this way, but at least they are soldiers going about their duties and seem much less likely to stop her. There is an old path and cave, boarded up and closed, which presumably leads into the mountain. She supposes you could still get to the devastation of the Temple that way, if you were able, but it is likely to be extremely dangerous beyond the boards. It would be all she needs to have survived this _thing_ in her hand to fall down a hole in the ground and break her neck.

She starts to hike up the hill, beyond the entrance to the mountain. As she rises above the village, the view to the Breach is uninterrupted and awesome. Her hand thrums in sympathy. She looks down at it in mystification. She has never felt magic like this before, and if she is very truthful it scares her immensely.

_Shit, it would scare me even if it wasn’t attached to me._

As she heads away from the safety of others, she calls up a spirit barrier and ducks through some gorse, grateful that the thorns stream past her. Her aura goes blue as the thorns wear through the magic like a knife through cold butter.

With the shield of the plants she pauses and looks for higher ground. As she climbs the rise the Breach is an overwhelming part of her vision, so she puts her back to it and looks out over the village. The Chantry serves as the apex of the entire village, with a smattering of houses spread around it. She can hear a smithy and though she can’t see it, a column of smoke rising just beyond the erected walls of the village tells her the smith must be just outside the gate. From here, looking beyond the gate, she can get a sense of just how many people are gathered at Haven.

There had been thousands at the Conclave, with representation from all over the Free Marches, Antiva, Nevarra, Ferelden, and Orlais come to witness and partake of the peace the Divine said she could bring. Here at Haven, though, there couldn’t be more than a few hundred tents beyond the gate. So, she counts in her head, they are maybe a thousand strong. How many of those left were actually of any use in fighting demons? Certainly not that damn chancellor, although she wouldn’t mind feeding him to one.

Absently, she notices a soldier at a dead run heading toward the center of the village, moving along the path she had come down. She watches as he harrows up toward the center of the village, past the crowds, and runs in the direction of the Chantry. Outside its doors she can see the Hands of the Divine walking and talking with the Commander. The soldier intercepts the Commander and immediately begins to talk; the Hands join them.

She begins to worry that an attack is coming. Quickly she scans the horizon looking for, what? An armed force, a banner, a dragon, more demons? Seeing nothing and short-tempered at her own ludicrous thoughts of doom, her vision swings back around to see the Commander gathering up four or five more uniformed soldiers and just as many scouts. She opens herself to the Veil, casts another barrier spell, wishes she had a staff to focus, and watches where they head so she can join them.

It is with a sense of incredulity that she witnesses the flurry move not to outside the gate, but follow the same path she took minutes ago. The Commander picks up more men as he strides along, his gait smooth and his body language not rushed. His long legs eat up the distance and the scouts have to trot along behind him in order to keep pace. He looks like caged thunder, and it begins to dawn on her what the problem is at hand.

She was an idiot not to realize she was being followed. Undoubtedly her disappearance into the gorse thicket—impenetrable to anyone without a magical barrier or an intense dislike for their skin—sent the poor soldier tasked with tagging her into a tizzy. Sighing in consternation, she could just discern the Commander’s questing presence as he comes closer to her. As he drops out of her view, hidden by the roll of the terrain, she can _feel_ him looking for her.

_Yes, he is a damn, bloody Templar, isn’t he._

Looking around her, she sees he will need to send men hiking around and up the hillside in order to skirt the gorse. Sighing, she realizes that unless she wants to find herself mana-drained, an exhausting process even when she hasn’t just woken up after three days of being out cold, she had better figure out how to meet them quietly and quickly.

She senses his direction from his questing lyrium presence. Grunting in frustration, she walks forward through the gorse in that direction. She leaves the remnant of her barrier in place to protect her from the thorns, but releases her openness to the Fade. She clears the thicket and waits.

It is not too long before the Templar emerges below her on the hillside. She stands with her arms held behind her back and firmly meets his gaze, forcing calm into her features. Undoubtedly realizing that a conversation and explanations are inevitable, the Commander inclines his head to her. He speaks a few words to the soldier next to him and dismisses the soldier with a wave of his hand. In her peripheral vision she sees the scouts that were fanning out respond to the soldier’s hand signal to recall all their actions, and they retreat to return to their duties.

_Oh, so he’s not afraid to be alone with me. Someone is very sure of himself. Damn, bloody Templar._

He starts up the hill, his eyes not leaving hers, his hands also clasped behind his back, mirroring her actions. His face is neutral. They engage in this little play where they each try to convey that we are all friends here, on the same side, just out for a chat in the sunshine. It is a ruse that does not deceive her; his cat-like, predatory stalk as he comes up the hill belies the power in him. There is no doubt in her mind that he can reach his sword, quell her mana, and strip her defenses before she would even be able to cross back into the gorse.

He approaches, coming within arm’s length so that they may speak without raising voices. “I am sorry to intrude upon your privacy – “

“I am not unaccustomed to being watched, Ser Knight,” she interrupts, pointlessly sparring with him, unwilling to be meek.

“Yes,” he holds a beat. He takes a breath. “Regardless, you should not wander about alone, particularly up the mountainside. It is too dangerous and you are necessary.”

“Of course, I am; how else will you make the Breach go away? But I think you forget,” she takes a step closer and hisses at him, “that I was watched because I _was_ dangerous. I can account for myself. I lost your scout, didn’t I?” Even though she wasn’t remotely aware that she was being followed, she still has no desire for this man, this arrogant, insufferable knight, to know how discombobulated she feels. She would rather be thought dangerous than fearful.

He stares at her and his head cocks to the side as he considers her. He looks her up and down, quickly assessing. He relaxes his stance, shifts his weight, and moves toward her. She instinctively opens to the veil, but before she can cast, he lowers himself to a large rock by her feet and sits. He doesn’t look at her, but looks instead out toward the siege weapon construction.

His hands rest on the pommel of his sword and he waits to speak until she lowers herself next to him. “It is Commander.”

“Pardon?” she asks.

“Not Ser Knight. I have left the Order behind.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you’re completely finished with the Chantry as the _Commander_ of the _Inquisition_ ’s forces.”

He snorts in a breathy chuckle. “I simply mean, I am here to lend my support in the field and my tactical guidance in Council. I am certain the Chantry would take the first opportunity to string any of us up from a gallows.”

She hums deep in her throat: “Certainly Chancellor Roderick would.”

“He would need us to help him hang the rope though, and possibly string the noose around our own necks,” he deadpans, and she laughs out loud in spite of herself. When she quiets he continues, “I am not here to be your keeper, Lady Herald. I am here to fulfill my oaths.”

“To the Inquisition?” she asks.

He nods off-handedly, “Among others.”

They sit in silence, watching the bustle of the training ground in the far distance and the activity at the siege weapon in the fore. She points at the latter.

“Are we expecting an invasion?” she asks simply.

“Other than darkspawn and demons? No. I do not believe so. The Left Hand’s information does not yet show that anyone besides the Chantry believes us to be a problem. There is too much concern for the Breach.”

“Surely she isn’t anymore,” Dorothea says absently. The Commander looks at her quizzically and frowns. She explains, “the Hands of the Divine; surely they do not hold their posts anymore? They must be defined by this, they must be defined now by this new thing; like you, like me.”

He looks at her, looking as if he is trying to work something out.

“Was it …” he speaks quietly, hesitating for a word, “difficult in the Circle?” His tone holds caution and just the slightest hint of … regret? She’s unsure. But the hesitation takes her by surprise, and she sits, unable to answer. She is silent for so long that he must believe she will not answer his question.

She doesn’t have to. Her past life in the Circle seems a world away and, at this moment, a world that will never come again. She is not naïve to the irregular behaviors that could happen in a Circle between Templars and Mages. The good stories were the ones that were willing; the bad … well, she supposes that is the very definition of ‘difficult’.

“No. We were a small Circle, much buffered from the worst of the rebellion until recent months. But, to answer the question I think you are asking, no. I never met any … personal … difficulties.”

A thread of tension in his shoulders drops slightly and he nods. Dorothea realizes that the answer was important. She is glad she gave it.

He stands and extends his hand to help her up. She takes it and pulls herself to her feet. They begin the walk down the hillside next to each other.

“It is invariable,” she speaks into the stillness, “that when some people are put into a position of trust, they will prove they are less than worthy, Templar or Mage. I am sure in your travels you have encountered at least one Maleficar, ‘Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children.’”

He hums deep in his throat, a pleasing sound to her ears, “Are you a devout Andrastian?”

“No, I am not; an adulthood in a Circle is enough to make anyone pause about the Chantry and their creation, their solution. But my family is known for its devotion and service, so I am well tutored in the Chant.” She smirks, “particularly the bits that name me to be an Abomination.”

“What of you?” she asks. “You were Knight-Commander in Kirkwall, I believe, before this? You are very young, I think. Our Knight Commander is–was–an older man, so I always assumed such posts were given for long service. It must have been hard to leave behind such accomplishments.”

“Duty can be larger than a single cause. It was not difficult to leave Kirkwall. As you say, an adulthood in a Circle is enough to make anyone pause.”

“But yet, you are still here, serving the Maker?”

“Well, yes; but not the Order.”

His distinction seems academic to her, but she lets it go. “I am sure the Order did not give you up easily. You rebuilt Kirkwall; the mess you must have walked into on day one. Tales of the horrors reached Ostwick, but the devastation is still hard to imagine. Do you know if the Knight-Commander, Meredith, was she really possessed by a demon?”

The Commander stares straight ahead, his spine stiffening slightly. He clears his throat, “not a demon, no. It was the effect of Red Lyrium. It is a corrupted form, very toxic, very destructive. The corruption heightens all the effects of lyrium, strength, power, but also the paranoia and the loss of self. It erodes one’s compassion, one’s very self until the will is perverted to the lyrium. Her addiction was easy to hide as she had so much power over the Circle and respect by the Chantry, but ultimately her betrayal was apparent to all, including me.”

“Including you?”

They walk for a few beats. Then he speaks.

“Yes. I did not come to Kirkwall after, I was there during the Uprising. I was Meredith’s second and assumed command following the aftermath.”

Dorothea continues to walk, but slightly increases her distance from the Commander. She had not expected this.

_Great, he’s not only a bloody damn Templar, but the Fucking Knight-Captain of Kirkwall, to boot._

She knew the stories: Meredith had gone mad. In constant conflict with the First Enchanter, her control of the Circle was draconian, making Tranquils of her charges like they were candy. In the end, with the Kirkwall Chantry’s Mother dead and Enchanter Orsinio resorting to Blood Magic, Meredith’s raving authority let loose and bled into Kirkwall, turning the city into a war zone until the Champion came and put an end to it all.

The atrocities Meredith allowed and encouraged had all been witnessed—and participated in?—by this man. It was simply too much to take in. She couldn’t reconcile the two notions of him: in one a ruthless, abusive killer and in the next a dedicated servant of the Chantry, a servant not so much different than her grand sires. And now he was the leader of the military arm of the Inquisition. She was almost willing to ask the Seeker to take over, but that would only be trading one leash for another.

They arrive back by the gates to find the crowd of bodies still presses around her cottage. She hurriedly takes her leave of him and dodges through the throng to her front door, closing it on them all, not looking back.


	2. Chapter 2

Cullen does not fail to notice her silence. After correcting her knowledge of his position in Kirkwall, her formality and defenses had gone back up. He can’t blame her. Whether or not she can be trusted, or if she will make a nug’s ear out of this, it is irrelevant to the very human horror she felt at what had happened in Kirkwall. While she skimmed over the full scale of chaos that had been the Gallows and Lowtown after the Chantry explosion and the Uprising, she undoubtedly knew enough to horrify her. Horrify her that he had been there, that he had witnessed it, that he had been involved.

When they return to the area by the gate, her need to get away from him is obvious. He watches her hurry away, darting for her cottage and retreating behind its door. There are still a dozen or so pilgrims vying for her attention outside, but she blusters quickly past them, and no one dares to intercept her.

Cullen gestures to several of his guards. He places one outside her door to aid her if she needs it, but also to keep the stray person from barging in on her privacy. He sets another a distance away, still in line of sight of the door, to follow her if she leaves. He hesitates and then orders another to clear the steps and area in front of her cottage. At least he can help to control the number of people watching her, even if he cannot leave her completely unwatched himself.

As he prepares to return to the training ground he realizes, though, that if she heads back out into the countryside his guards will look starkly obvious in the middle of a forest. Never mind that they have been trying to train these soldiers in tactics that are the opposite of stealth. It would only be a matter of time before she lost one of them again. He smirks to himself.

_Assuming that this time she actually knows they are there._

Standing at the center of the village, his growing scowl leads many people to give him a wide berth and suddenly he can clearly see Master Tethras. Varric looks up and laughs in his direction, waving a hand for Cullen to join Varric by his fire.

Cullen is not in the mood for more memories from Kirkwall and, feigning he hasn’t seen the dwarf, he veers off to the left and turns toward the Chantry and to Leliana’s tent. He will ask the Left Hand—the Spymistress—for a scout to tail her with his guards. Yes, that will be safer and should work well.

When he arrives at her tent it is to find the Spymistress reviewing reports, looking as in need of sleep as they all do. Fleetingly, he wonders if she and Cassandra have taken a moment to digest the Divine’s death. He is not able to dwell on that thought for very long as he crosses under the tent’s roof. Leliana looks up and smiles, a radiant beam of joy. Her successes in the Orlesian court are not hard to imagine in her presence, nor is it difficult to see why she found such a receptive mentor in Justinia. In the face of such joy, flourishing in service to the Maker must feel natural.

“Commander, she is safe and sound?”

“Yes, Spymistress. Although you already know that, I think.” Leliana’s lips barely twitch in her smile, acknowledging the compliment, perhaps the jibe, perhaps just the clear truth of the statement. He is unsure which it might be, her eyes sparkling with humor, regardless. “I wanted to ask if one of your scouts could accompany one of my guards on watch, to follow her so that if she heads off again—”

“They have more options? Yes.” She calls out beyond the tent, “Marcus? Please sit, Commander,” and gestures across her table to an overturned box serving as a second chair in her makeshift office. A scout comes in from outside her tent and she addresses him: “Go and find,” she taps her lips, her eyes scanning through a roll only she can see, “Iona,” and she looks directly at Marcus again. “I have a task for her.”

As Marcus tears off, she turns back to Cullen. “She is out scouting the western side of the lake, so this may take a small bit of time, but I am glad you are here. You can perhaps indulge me with some assistance while we wait to give out your instructions.” As she speaks, she rises and crosses to a stack of boxes and lifts the lid from the top one, sifting through its contents.

Cullen shifts. He hadn’t planned on adding a social call. He would rather that Leliana send this Iona to find him for further instructions. Although, truth be told, he is a little annoyed at having to wait at all as there are numerous scouts just outside the tent, waiting for the Spymistress’s instruction.

“Unless you would prefer to return to the training ground to glare at your captains, while you in turn are glared at by Cassandra?” Even before she turns back, he can hear the smile in her voice. She so accurately interprets his silence that he is momentarily stunned. “By all means, Commander, I will not keep you. But I thought you might help me to evaluate one of the artifacts brought to me from the explosion site.”

As she returns to the desk, his eyes shift to what she holds. It is a checkered board and a sack. She hands both to him while she clears papers, retrieves the board from him to set it on the table, and then turns to pour tea from the pot sitting to the side. “Ah, the pot has gone cool. Shall I start a new one?”

Cullen opens the bag to find chess pieces inside, much to his delight. By instinct he takes each one out, inspects it, and begins to set the board. He hears Leliana call for fresh water as she dumps the tea pot’s contents outside by the fire ring.

When she returns, the pot is in her hands and she places it on the table to steep, steam curling gently from its spout. All of the chess pieces from the bag sit on the board.

“You are missing the White Queen and a Black Rook, otherwise they are all here,” Cullen assesses.

“Ah, let’s put this,” she moves her stoppered ink bottle to the Black Rook’s position in front of Cullen, “And …” She looks around for a suitably sized object to stand in for the White Queen.

Cullen reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a silver coin. “How about this?” The face of Andraste is just visible, but soft around the edges where it has been worn through time by contact.

Leliana sits in her chair behind white and evaluates her opening salvo, “White to me, Commander? I’m surprised you don’t wish to start.”

“I like to see how you will lead,” Cullen murmurs, observing her move. “Ah, pawn to c4. Trying to control the center of the board, Spymistress? A solid, confident move. Pawn to d6.”

“How did you find your chat with our Herald?” Leliana asks, her eyes on the board.

“She has a sense of humor, but I do not think she will trust me overly much. Pawn to g5.”

She moves her next piece and then pours tea for each of them while Cullen evaluates his next move. Leliana lifts a questioning eyebrow when she hands him his tea, silently encouraging elaboration on his pronouncement.

“Kirkwall. She knew I came from there, but she did not know I had been Knight-Captain for Meredith. She was already wary of me because I am a Templar—“

“Was a Templar,” interrupts Leliana, pulling her knight back, retreating from the foray she had pushed it into.

Cullen glances at her wryly. “That does not seem to matter to her, Bishop to g7.” Then half under his breath, “I am not sure she is wrong.”

“Commander, it is not like you took the Grey. Others have left the Order before. Not many, I grant you. Before we departed for the Temple Justinia had me find several histories that showed it has been done. I know she shared them with you,” Leliana’s tone is open, the question of whether or not he read them in the air.

“Yes, and I did read them. But none of them were from recent history, and they were ridiculously vague. There is no way to know if I can truly leave the life of a Templar behind.”

“It is more than that, and you do a disservice to yourself to pretend otherwise. You have made a commitment to atone,” she moves a pawn, captures one of his, and meets his eyes.

Cullen keenly notices her reference, furrows his brow at her gaze, and returns his eyes to the board. “Bishop to e5,” he snatches up a pawn, and sits back to drink his tea. Not expecting to lose her pawn, Leliana bends her head to inspect the board. Cullen takes advantage of her distraction to reflect on her statement.

It startles him to still feel the presence of the Divine as sharply as the day he stepped foot in the Grand Cathedral for the first time. But he knows it is because Leliana has said precisely the same thing that Justinia would have in this moment. It should not surprise him, but it still does. While the Right Hand was always dedicated to being the Divine’s hand in the world, asserting order, the woman across from him had been her Left Hand. The Left Hand spends her life dedicating herself to knowing the Divine’s Will. Cullen knew just how formidable Justinia’s will had been and if he could feel its reach from beyond the Veil, he could only begin to imagine how the woman across from him felt the Divine’s presence.

Leliana captures his knight with her bishop in the middle of the board, only to leave herself open to him taking the same bishop with a rook.

“Did Justinia play?” he asks softly.

“I do not know. We did not play together, at least, not with chess pieces. Most Holy preferred to use real peoples, as you well know.” She smiles to soften the starkness of her statement.

Cullen nods in acknowledgement. They continue on, Leliana whittling away at his pieces until they are matched piece for piece: kings, a rook each, and a smattering of pawns.

“Where is your scout, Leliana? She must have been half-way to the Frostbacks.”

“Eager to get away, Commander?” she teases, confident in the board before her. “She is here, waiting outside.”

Cullen snaps his head up. “Why did she not approach?”

Leliana laughs. “Because I signaled her not to, Commander; I do not think the Herald will venture out again until dusk, so there is time. Besides, I did not want anyone to closely witness what will be the embarrassment of you,” as she slides her king to capture his rook.

Cullen looks at the board, and then raises his eyes to hers. “Oh?” He grins confidently into Leliana’s suddenly faltering smile as he moves his pawn to her front row, “just when you will be giving me back my queen? I don’t see why, I’ve always had a fondness for strong women, so I see no shame in defeating you with my queen.”

Leliana quickly assesses the possible escapes her king can make as Cullen attacks her pawns, leaving her king and rook defenseless for his inevitable barrage and victory. A small smile plays across her lips and she extends her hand to Cullen, which he takes.

“Next time, Commander, I shall have to cheat,” and winks at him.

Cullen laughs aloud as she signals for Iona to join them.


	3. Chapter 3

A pawn. That was what she was. Dorothea takes another bite of the apple in her hand. She hasn’t had a hot meal since yesterday morning, and it is beginning to make her beyond irritable. But her first (and if she could help it only) experience at the mess line left her with a strong desire not to return. The fact that she didn’t know anyone was little bother, it was that no one would speak around her. A susurrus followed her, and it grated on her nerves to the point of anger.

She had gotten up and left, stew unfinished, grabbing her bread, trying to look as if she had remembered something important, something forgotten, and headed out the gates. Not wanting a repeat of that morning’s encounter with the Commander, she’d walked nice and slow past the stables and toward the Western Bridge into the valley. Her tails were less than … stealthy. The Commander seemed to outdo himself with the clunky, lumbering guards he sent to follow her.

She waved at this morning’s lackluster example of watchfulness, standing by the armory, watching her eat her apple. Even from here, in the shadow of the gate’s doors, she could see him blush—Andraste’s Ass, was he 14?—and she took another bite of her apple. She was at a loss as to why the Commander didn’t send the Spymistress’s scouts to follow her. But, these soldier boys seemed to give up much beyond the walls, waiting for her to come back, so she was able to get a few moments of peace out in the hills. And, at least, she now knew that the Commander was not a terribly _subtle_ strategist. Small mercies.

In the village she actually didn’t mind the presence of her watchful, noticeable guard. It meant she at least could try to relax and not watch her back at every moment. The Seeker sought to assure her that not everyone believed she was a hero (the Lady Cassandra was a remarkably _forthright_ woman, to the point of awkwardness; it was how Dorothea knew she was true nobility).

The expedition to the Hinterlands that they were leaving for on the morrow was to help rally people to the Inquisition’s cause.

And find horses.

And find a Chantry Mother.

And get agents.

And close rifts.

She feels like she is being sent to market to gather the ingredients for a large Satinalia feast. Dorothea sighs. It probably matters little; it is a miracle she had survived this long, and she hears there are bears that deep in Ferelden.

She takes another bite of the apple and leans back against the stone wall, her head in the dusk of its shadow, staring out at the drilling soldiers. Parade ground: what a stupid name. Leave it to the military to make practicing death sound like a picnic.

Her hand hurts. She holds it out in front of her, watching the twist of the green light just below the surface. It looks like a candle glowing through a pocket of green glass, almost the color of some sort of bizarre marsh gas. It is oddly beautiful, but wildly unsettling. Unable to help herself she lets her eyes drift to the Breach in the sky where the large hole mirrors the luminescent glow in her hand.

_It will be good to leave tomorrow for the Hinterlands and get away from the Breach; at least, the damn one in the sky._

She would be taking Varric, Solas, and the Seeker with her, along with a small company of soldiers as a rear camp. There would be a few Templars travelling with them to protect the soldiers from any rebel mages they encountered, but none would be scouting ahead with her. She was astounded the Commander hadn’t demanded it in the Council meeting this morning—or taken it in his head to be in her party himself—so it was a relief to be away.

She watches the drills in front of her: parry, block, and riposte, repeat. Even as sheltered as she’d lived in the Circle, she can still see how green these men and women are. The drill might as well be: stab, get your damn shield up, stabey-stab-stab, don’t fall down, repeat.

But the Commander and his captains seem indefatigable in the monumental task of making these soldiers into a cohesive, fighting force. Indeed, as she looks at _Ser_ Rutherford she can scarcely imagine anything that might daunt him.

_Certainly not some nonsense such as a bloody big hole in the sky; surely we can just stick a sword in it._

He may not choose to wear his Templar armor, but it was more and more apparent to her he was the Chantry’s creature. She’d never been a good Chantry Girl, less so when she was trapped by a Circle. It was no small irony that a great family like the Trevelyens full of spare sons and promised daughters shipped off to serve the Chantry at the first opportunity would dwindle to a disenfranchised mage who would be an ‘ideal’ liaison to the Divine’s Conclave when the whole damn world decided to blow up.

So, she was stuck here with a fanatical Seeker, a Maker-loyal Spymistress, an Antivan, an Apostate, a devout Andrastian dwarf, and a Good Chantry Boy.

_How in the Blight am I going to get out of this mess?_

**Author's Note:**

> Create Order #2/4  
> For more on this story's creation, checkout [Appendix, Chapter 6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6612037/chapters/18520750)


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